


Redemption and Penance

by AfricanDaisy, Kaylee no Valerian (KayleeArafinwiel)



Series: The House of Shahrizai [3]
Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: Cousin Incest, Father-Son Relationship, M/M, Uncle-Nephew Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 02:22:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6934300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AfricanDaisy/pseuds/AfricanDaisy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayleeArafinwiel/pseuds/Kaylee%20no%20Valerian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Imriel's short-lived first marriage, he finds himself drawn back to his Shahrizai cousin Mavros for comfort...and learns lessons about Kushiel's judgement from Mavros' father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Scion's Redemption

**Author's Note:**

> "A Scion's Redemption" - authored by AfricanDaisy  
> "A Scion's Penance" - authored by Kaylee no Valerian (KayleeArafinwiel)

Silence, and then the messenger bowed and retreated. The silence was broken a moment later by a long sigh. I looked at him across the table, looked into his eyes of twilit sapphires, and saw that their incorrigible merriment, their hint of arrogance, their gleam of lust and their seductive allure that had the power to ensnare men and women alike…it was gone. I startled, and my cousin focused on me, managing a smile, but not before I marked the flicker of doubt on his face. Doubt, and somewhat else, somewhat more. Fear. Surely not, I told myself, not Mavros. But I knew enough of fear; I had seen enough fear in my nineteen summers to recognise it. And I saw it there, before me.

“What was that?”

“Nothing important,” Mavros replied, shaking his head. His myriad of tiny braids rippled and gleamed, blue-black and luscious. “Nothing for _you_ to be worrying about. Haven’t you enough troubles of your own to be getting on with?”

“Don’t be an idiot. Tell me. I’m in your debt; the least I can do is listen.” He sighed again, and I watched as he pressed his rose-red lips together. The pressure turned them white and bloodless. They parted so he could release another sigh, and the blood seeped back into them. Mavros looked…he looked torn, helpless, lost. It was not a look I had ever seen on my Shahrizai cousin’s beautiful face, yet there it was. “Mavros,” I prompted him, and he stirred.

“Lord Sacriphant has been sighted,” he said softly, reluctantly. “He is expected within the hour.”

“Oh.” I nodded. “Good.”

“Not exactly.”

I looked up and arched an eyebrow at his flat tone. “As long as he’s not followed by a contingent of the Queen’s armed guard to arrest me, I don’t see the problem.”

“Oh, Imri,” Mavros said, scowling. “Queen Ysandre won’t _arrest_ you. She’s just pissed off at you.”

“So pissed off that you had to offer me sanctuary,” I said drily. I shook my head, and set the conversation back on track. “So Lord Sacriphant is coming here. He has every right to; this _is_ his hunting manor. I’d think you would be pleased to see your father.”

Mavros laughed bitterly and leaned forward, wrapping long fingers around the stem of his wine glass. It was porcelain, so fine and so delicate that the wine showed through it in a rosy blush. He drank the wine down, wincing slightly as it burned the back of his throat. “Remember what I said to you, Imri. The day I invited you here. What did I say?”

I am good at these games. Very good, thanks to the teachings of my foster-mother. “After the affair was discovered, you came to the townhouse. I asked you why, and you told me to get out of the city. _‘I’m not sure if my father will belt me or kiss me for it, but I’d like to offer the hospitality of House Shahrizai, cousin’_ ,” I quoted him, holding his twilit eyes.

“He’s not coming all this way to kiss me,” Mavros said softly.

“Well. You’re kissable,” I said.

“My _father_ is coming here, not an adept of the Night Court,” he snapped.

I raised my hands, placating him. “I know. Mavros, what’s the worry? I’m your cousin. You’ve hosted me here before.”

“Never when you have been out of favour with the Queen of Terre d’Ange. You fled the City, and House Shahrizai offered you sanctuary. _House Shahrizai_ ,” Mavros said quietly. “The House of the realm’s greatest traitor, for whom execution awaits if ever she is found. And I’m harbouring her only son.”

The mention of my mother, the unintended comparison, stung me. I tried to ignore it. I couldn’t. “I’m not Melisande,” I replied, my voice as soft as my cousin’s. “I am not and have never been a traitor. I just…I simply fell in love. That’s all. It’s not a crime.”

“No, it’s not. But there is no _‘simply’_ about it when the woman you fell in love with is heir to the throne of Terre d’Ange, nor when your wife, the Cruarch’s _niece_ , is barely cold in the ground,” Mavros snapped, rising abruptly. He strode to the window and pressed his hands against the glass, bowing his head. For a moment, tiny blue-black braids formed a curtain around his face. Then he looked up, and met my eyes in the window. “Make yourself scarce for the day, Imriel.”

“Don’t be a fool,” I chided him. “If Lord Sacriphant is angry…well, he’ll punish you and that will be that. He may do nothing.”

“You don’t know him. I do. I know him. He’ll…” Mavros turned to face me. He was trembling. Most people wouldn’t be able to tell, but then, most people hadn’t been trained by Phèdre no Delaunay; I could see how his braids quivered, ever so slightly. “You know what it is to be a scion of our Lord Kushiel,” he continued quietly. “You know how it is. His scions find no redemption in chastisement, only pleasure, pleasure and love.”

“I know it,” I agreed. “But, Mavros…when I hear ‘you have been a very naughty boy and I shall have to punish you’ in the Night Court, I react differently than I do when I hear it from Joscelin.”

Mavros started, and he stared at me for a moment before laughing, low and short. “Imriel. You have never heard those words from an adept of the Night Court. And you’re not telling me that _Joscelin Verreuil_ has ever truly said that to you.”

“No,” I admitted, smiling faintly. I thought briefly of my foster-father – Queen’s Champion, consort and Perfect Companion to the realm’s most famous courtesan, anathema member of the Cassiline Brotherhood, the greatest swordsman in the land and a hero of whom stories were spun and songs sung. No. I could not imagine him ever speaking so to me. “No,” I repeated aloud, “he has never said those words. But my point, Mavros…punishment for the sake of pleasure, for pure carnal pleasure…it is so very different to punishment done to discipline, to correct mistakes, to cleanse.”

“No? Then why do they have to use metal-tipped floggers in Kushiel’s temples? You’re half Shahrizai, Imri,” Mavros said quietly, sounding tired. “No less Kushiel’s scion than me, no. But it makes it easier for you to suppress your darker desires.”

I opened my mouth to argue. If Mavros thought it was in any way _easy_ for me to suppress the dark urges that overcame me, the desire to give bruising kisses, to tangle my hands in long hair and pull, to watch the kiss of a lash turning pale flesh rosy, to watch my lover squirming and writhing as ropes burned her wrists, then clearly he knew nothing. _And yet._ And yet, it was true. I was half Shahrizai. Did I only know the half of it, then? How much more did Mavros have to struggle? Was that why he gave in to his desires so often, because it was just too hard? I couldn’t know, I realised.

“You’ve a point,” I said, humbled. “Mavros, I’ll leave. You don’t have to suffer for me.”

“Don’t leave. Stay here,” he replied, sounding stronger now. “Besides, it’s done.”

And so it was, for Lord Sacriphant arrived within the promised hour.

My mother’s uncle was a tall man, lithe and hard, with broad shoulders and a strong chest. I had not met his other sons, but the resemblance to his youngest was immediately apparent. They had the same high cheekbones, the same arched eyebrows and sapphire-blue eyes. Sacriphant’s braided hair was as blue-black as his son’s, but here and there I caught sight of a silver thread. He didn’t have the same androgynous face as Mavros, but he was handsome, his features barely lined with age though he was nearing sixty; we are D’Angeline, we age with grace and beauty.

“Prince Imriel,” he greeted me coolly, affording me a slight bow. He turned then to his son, and his expression became as cold as the snows of Skaldia. “Mavros. Upstairs.”

“Father,” my cousin whispered in acquiescence, and he bowed to Sacriphant before straightening and walking steadily from the room with his eyes turned away from me. Cowardly as I was, I was glad he didn’t look. I didn’t think I could bear to see the pain in his gaze. His pain was my fault.

When I was alone with Sacriphant, I turned to him. “My lord,” I said, spreading my hands helplessly. “Mavros has been a good friend, a good cousin to me. He has shown me greater loyalty and kindness than I could ask for. He did it knowing well that it may incur your wrath. I beg of you, have mercy on him.”

“When a child disobeys his father, he is whipped,” Sacriphant said dispassionately. His lips curved in the tiniest of smiles. “I don’t suppose you’d know aught of that, raised as you were.”

It was true enough. Phedre and Joscelin had never punished me so. I knew little of Mavros’ childhood, though by all accounts it had been a harsh one. He had been a surprise to his father and a disappointment to his mother; Lady Adeline, when she had secretly lit her candle to Eisheth, had prayed to finally have a daughter after four sons. That Mavros had been born easily and quickly, beautiful and healthy, had never been enough for her, and she had held him even more distantly in her affections than she did her elder sons. Lord Sacriphant had had little time for his youngest, and Mavros had grown up largely overlooked in his father’s household, forgotten about until he did something wrong.

I felt for him, and understood why he spent so much time away from his home in Kusheth.

My mother’s uncle – mine too, I suppose, though I saw Sacriphant so little it was difficult to remember that – accorded me another brief bow before sweeping from the room, his black and gold brocade coat flaring out. I heard him stride upstairs and I heard the sound of a door opening and closing, but after that I heard no more. Rooms in a Shahrizai household are designed to keep sound in. It sent a frisson of horror through me, and I wished I knew what was happening to my beloved cousin.

At the same time, I was glad I didn’t.

When Lord Sacriphant left, he didn’t even bother bowing to me. He swept past me and the door slammed. It rang in my ears and I turned slowly, staring up the stairs. It took me a few moments to make my feet move. I was afraid of what I would see. I was afraid that Mavros would blame me, reject me. I was afraid of the guilt. I walked slowly, my mouth dry and my heart heavy. I made myself put one foot in front of the other, and eventually I found myself outside my cousin’s bedroom.

I thought Mavros was unconscious at first, but I moved closer and saw he was merely sleeping. His cheeks were stained with tears, and blood had dried on his lower lip. He had been struck more than once; one of Sacriphant’s rings had split his lower lip and cut his cheek, too. Beneath the light silk sheet, Mavros was unclothed. His flesh was a mass of welts and bruises, from his shoulders all the way down to his thighs. Sacriphant had stopped just short of drawing blood.

Tears stinging my eyes, I lay with Mavros and held him as carefully as I could.


	2. A Scion's Penance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sacriphant Shahrizai has had quite enough of his great-nephew's petulance, and teaches him what it truly means to know Kushiel's mercy.

“There you are, Prince Imriel.”

I turned to face my uncle, Lord Sacriphant. My great-uncle, but since he and my mother were near enough of an age I supposed it mattered not. “Where is Mavros, Uncle?” I demanded – foolishly, mayhap. But after the last time…after Mavros’ bruises and cuts, I felt right to be concerned. Lord Sacriphant raised an eyebrow.

“I told you, _nephew._ When a boy disobeys his father, he is whipped.” Sacriphant Shahrizai was an imposing man. I had thought so before, and I thought so again. “But then, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? Has your foster-father ever given you a taste of the lash? I doubt it to be so.”

Something in me responded to the sneering tones in my uncle’s voice – ah, Elua, Kushiel! All I could think of to say was, “No, sir.”

“No, sir,” he echoed mockingly. “Well, nephew. You are Shahrizai after all, and it is time and past time you began learning the lessons a father should impart.”

“It is no fault of mine that I am a traitor’s son,” I growled. “I am no traitor myself, no matter what Queen Ysandre thinks of me at the moment.”

“Queen Ysandre,” my uncle said, grabbing me by the hair, “thinks you are a foolish boy who ought to be able to control his desires better. Your wife is barely cold in the ground, nephew.” He tilted my head back and locked eyes with me. “And I take you to be a boy in need of a long-delayed, well-deserved lesson. So come.”

Darsanga flashed through my eyes, and my knees felt like jelly. Sacriphant’s eyes softened – if marginally so, turning his eyes to glass chips rather than sapphire – and he supported me with his arm as he hauled me upstairs. “I am not the Marhkagir, nephew,” he said quietly. “This is not Darsanga.” I swallowed hard and nodded.

“Yes, sir,” I managed to stammer, not asking him how he knew. It was a Shahrizai’s business to know everything, I supposed. He took me to my room and had me kneel by the bedpost. “Shirt off, Imriel,” my uncle commanded, and I mastered myself enough to obey. He used a silk rope to tie my wrists to the bedpost, and drew out the flogger, bronze-tipped like one of Kushiel’s temple. I quailed inside, fearing it, wanting it, shuddering as conflicting feelings coursed through me.

I pressed my forehead against the bedpost, and my whipping began.

Pain seared through me, burning me, warming me, _soothing_ me. It was fire, but it was Kushiel’s fire, Kushiel’s grace. I had displeased the Shahrizai. This was my penance. In a haze of red behind bronze wings, I sensed a feeling of _rightness_ with the world. I had not made things right with Ysandre, not yet – but I was making things right with Sacriphant. My entire body tingled with the burning pain of release and relief, and it was a moment, an age; an instant, an eternity, before the haze receded. How long had it been? I did not know. I sobbed, broken, happy, spent and exonerated, and above me, Sacriphant caressed my hair with a father’s tenderness, a feeling I had never before known, not even with Joscelin who I loved.

“You are forgiven, Imriel. Kushiel smiles on his scion now.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” I whispered when I had caught my breath. He brought water to wash my wounds, and I trembled at his touch. He gave me a kiss of benediction, and once more was the tower of strength, Lord Shahrizai, impassable and inscrutable, as he untied me.

“Be well, Prince. The Shahrizai stand with you.”

I lay on my bed, and when Lord Sacriphant departed, sleep came to claim me


End file.
